Growing pains: Flashbacks to yesterday

It’s about 11 in the morning and I’m in my blue room at my white desk, finishing up a story on my cat Zach who I still see slinking around corners and hiding under beds, though he hasn’t been with us physically for three months. 

The younger one is packing for her trip or patting cats or is on her computer.  I’m not sure.  I’m in a writing fog which means I’m blocking out the normal household sounds and I hear nothing but my writing voice telling me what to type. It’s not as strident or nasally as my speaking voice.  I wish I could copy it in real life. 

I spent most of the summer hearing those soft, imaginary tones dictate my thoughts, but with the advent of work and the return of my daughter, the voice has gone somewhere distant, though it’s filtering back, one raw chip at a time.     

  

My daughter has been home a week. There was an adaptive period during which I yelled at her for being annoying and she yelled at me for being annoying, then we got used to each other’s noises and fell into old familiar patterns. Now I don’t hear her anymore and she doesn’t hear me much either, unless I’m listening to something she can’t stand, like Springsteen. 

I’ve been up a few hours and so has she. I’ve hardly heard her and then I do. She’s at the threshold of my blue room. 

“Um. Mom? Um. Remember how I said my flight was tonight at 6:30? Well, um I just checked and it’s earlier. It’s at 3:55. We have to leave soon.” 

Whoosh. The fog is gone. 

My swearing is internal for once because her voice is high and I know that means she’s stressed and really all it means for me, this earlier departure, is that I go to the gym later in the day instead of in fifteen minutes, and don’t stop at the mall on the way home from the airport to browse through Crate and Barrel for table lamps I can’t afford right now anyhow.  

And she’s leaving sooner and I’m not ready for that. It wasn’t what I planned.  

I post the blog, one I’m not too thrilled with because it doesn’t feel authentic. I start wandering the house which means following her around and driving her nuts.   

I think back to when I was her age. I owned a house. I was married and pregnant with my first child, who’s now hundreds of miles away living her own life. Now my youngest is leaving me, though she really left me years ago, didn’t she? There was college, and before that high school, kindergarten, first steps, solid food. Oy.  

I push out the heavy old stuff and ask too many questions now about where she’ll be living and how she’ll get there and is she really all set? What else can I do for her?

“I’m fine mom. Really.” 

We pack the car. Each suitcase is so heavy I have to grab it by the handle and the wheels to lift it up onto my legs and then into the trunk.  It’s the I’ve packed everything I own and I’m leaving you and never coming back kind of heavy.  I can’t shake that thought. 

Nine years ago this weekend, I packed the car with my older daughter’s things, and drove her south for eight hours. Just one mile from her dorm, she turned to me and said, “This is too far away. This is a bad idea. Let’s go home.”

That’s what I’d been thinking too, all of it. It was too far. She was too young. I would miss her too much.  I knew better than to say any of that though.  Instead, I said the same thing to her that I said back when she started seventh grade at that new junior high that none of her friends had opted for. “You’re just nervous because this is something you’re not used to. Just give it time. Three weeks or so. If you don’t like it, you can go somewhere else. Okay?" 

The older one loved life down in DC. She stayed. She thrived. She’s still there.  

    

My younger daughter is journeying across the country to a temporary new home in San Francisco. She’s taking a 3,000 mile leap of faith.   

I drive her to the airport and park at the curb. We unload the car fast before security comes along and yells.  She’s shorter than me, by about an inch, but seems much tinier today. Maybe it’s because she’s stooped a little. She’s weighed down by her computer bag, which is strapped across her chest, and by her bursting backpack, which holds her running shoes and other irreplaceable items. Each small smooth hand grips the handle of a long, full suitcase. 

I kiss her cheek once, then kiss her again and again. I need to memorize the feel of her skin. It’s cool and young, just like her sister’s.  

I drive the hour home and can’t stop thinking about the first days of other journeys. I call her one last time, from the gym parking lot.  She’s getting set to board and can only talk for a second. 

“Yes mom. I will call you when I get off the plane.”

“Yes.  I will call you when I get to the apartment too. I’ve got to go now.”

I hit the store after the gym. My groceries for one take up too little space in the wire cart. I go back and wheel it down some more aisles. I fill it with non-perishables.  

I go home and spend forever on the computer. Her new address is just 9.87 miles from the San Francisco Airport, 4.35 miles from her internship, and 9.14 miles from the Golden Gate Bridge.  Thank you, mapquest. Her rented room is in an apartment-style condo in a six-story building on the commuter rail. The building is made of orange cement and was built in 2007. There are palm trees in front.  Thank you zillow. Thank you google images. 

It was late when I turned off the computer. The house was too quiet so I decided to watch television.  Then the phone started ringing, first one daughter, then the other. Then again and again. 

There they go.

Zach attack: The warrior cat rises

When Zach came along I had already started my fourth decade and was beyond overwhelmed.  I was raising two little girls on my own, was waitressing four nights a week, had grad school two nights a week plus the attendant homework, and picked up freelance writing and editing jobs whenever I could. 

There was always somewhere to be: work, school, doctors, play dates. There was never time to just plain sit and think. There was barely time for sleeping. Cleaning the house was bottom on the priority list. The sink was always filled with crusty pans, piles of laundry awaited folding, the carpet, once a lush clear celery, turned gray under the amassed dirt and dust.  And suddenly, we had a four-legged furniture shredder too.

I want to say I loved the guy and appreciated all the affection he showered on my kids, but the truth is,  as a young dude he was a one-cat wrecking machine. He destroyed my dining room set, an expensive hand-me-down from my mom. He dug canyons in the table legs, and tore holes in the cane of the high-backed chairs. He ripped the cushions of my chintz sofa set and carved up my Ethan Allen tables. He coughed up hair balls onto everything: upholstery, carpets, floors, bedspreads, toys, books, clean laundry.

  

My girls say that back then, this was all I ever said:  “I hate that cat! He makes me crazy! He ruins everything.”  I remember that.  I was still saying it up until just a few years ago. 

The girls were no help. 

“Oh mom. You know you love him.” (Back then I definitely didn’t.)

“He’s your baby.” (In my nightmares, maybe.) 

And then one of them would pick him up. He’d struggle to get loose, and land a few good scratches in the process. They’d press him against me and I’d have no choice but to play along. He’d nestle his soft head against my cheek and rest his chin on my shoulder. His body would flatten against mine. He’d lie still for a few seconds, and sigh like a contented little toddler. Then just as I started thinking that maybe he wasn't so bad after all, he’d squirm from my arms, drop to the floor, and scoot away. 

Zach loved to catch us by surprise. He’d lunge at us, claws and all, when we least expected it – in the middle of the night as I exited the dark bathroom, rounding a corner on a quiet Sunday morning, the newspaper in one hand and a full mug of steaming coffee in the other. 

He’d hide under furniture and swat at our legs. My older daughter had a sleep over party when Zach was just a few months old. If I hadn’t eventually locked the tiny beast in the cellar, we’d  have all ended up in the emergency room. As it was, every single little girl left the next day with a new birthday T-shirt decorated with neon puffy paint, and a scrape or two on her ankles. 

I had planned for Zach to be an indoor cat because the vet said responsible cat owners kept their pets inside. But his attacks were relentless and finally for the sake of my house and any visitors that still dared enter, I had to give in and unleash Zach on the neighborhood. 

From then on at our house, we had two seasons:  winter, and dead critter season. Zach was born to hunt in much the same way that I was born to devour chocolate.  In both cases, the urge was constant and uncontrollable.  Mouse carcasses littered our front and back yard much of the year. I spent a good part of every week in the summer scooping punctured chipmunk bodies from our pool water.  

No creatures were safe on our property, save for the monstrous black crows that roosted every spring in the pine tree outside the dining room. The only time I ever saw Zach cower was when those birds, big as cats themselves, let loose their cawing battle cries and swooped down at him, pecking and screaming and forcing him to run for cover under the nearest car or rhododendron bush.  I figured that he must have attacked a nest at one point and the crows were all about exacting revenge.  

Except for the crows, Zach was fearless. He’d glare down doggies twice his size as they walked by on their leashes. Sometimes, he’d trot alongside them, dart in close and hiss, then jump back gracefully, just micro millimeters out of reach, when they’d lunge his way. 

He especially loved tormenting Max, the cranky bijon frise who lived across the street. Max spent most of the day cooped up in his living room, barking from the picture window at pedestrians, cars, and Zach, who enjoyed spending hours stretched out languorously on sunny patches of Max’s driveway.

One day, Max came to our pool with his people. The personality clash between our two pets was often a topic of conversation. We speculated on what would happen, should we give Max freedom to act on his urges. Would Zach finally get what was coming to him?

From his perch high above us on the deck railing, Zach watched us coo and fuss over Max. He sat there alert, ears pricked, body tense, a soldier ready for attack. 

My neighbor Greta unleashed the unsuspecting moppet, and followed behind him as he sniffed at our feet, pawed at a spider, then walked toward the pool. He licked at the water a bit, lost interest in it, then made his way to some bushes.  I watched, fascinated. I wasn’t used to a pet that was so obedient and sweet.

The attack by Zach came out of nowhere. None of us were ready. One minute, all was quiet and calm. Then with a hiss, Zach leaped from the bushes, Max whined and took off, with Zach right behind him. They circled the pool once, twice, three times, four. Max put up a good fight at first, but quickly his energy flagged. His short clumsy gait was no match for Zach's elegant bounding. The distance between them narrowed. Greta grabbed at Max. I went for Zach. Our efforts were useless. Our hysterical laughing crippled us. 

Just as Zach closed in, Max vaulted like an Olympian, and landed with a splash in the middle of the deep end.  Zach stopped short, and just missed falling in himself. He sat back on his haunches and watched Max paddle toward the shallow end, where Greta stood on the stairs calling him. Zach watched Max climb out of the pool and shake off the wet, then lie down on a sunny patch next to his mother’s chair. 

I braced myself for Zach to attack again, but he didn’t. Instead he licked himself a bit, then trotted toward us. He gave Max no more than a cursory glance, curled up in the shade under my lounge chair, just inches from his soaked archenemy, and fell asleep.  

Master of our domain

Saved by the cat: Remembering Zach

Our first cat was a grey tabby named Zach. His full name was Zachary Morris, after my daughter's favorite character on "Saved by the Bell," but we only called him by his full name when we yelled at him, which was quite often when he was a young ‘un.

Zach joined our family at a sad time. I was in the process of getting a divorce. My children were quite young, just four and six, and still recovering from all the calamitous events that necessitated the break in the marriage.  When my grandmother suggested that a kitty might be just the thing to help with the healing, I pounced on the idea. I didn’t know anything about cats then, but I knew my kids were hurting and I wanted the hurting to stop.  

My grandmother’s nephew, the owner of Zach’s gold tabby mama, was a sweet guy who knew a lot about cats. He told me transporting our new pet would be easy. All I needed was a box with a sturdy cover. I showed up at his house with my four-year-old and a laundry basket, because really, how could such a feeble tiny thing ever find its way out of a laundry basket?   

It was twenty years ago, but the memory of that first ride home still makes me laugh out loud. We were barely out of the driveway when Zach wormed himself out of the basket and onto the back seat. He sniffed around, then proceeded to climb up my daughter, who was buckled into her booster chair.  

  

My daughter screeched and screamed. She giggled so hard she cried. I couldn’t see anything from where I sat. I was glad the giggles outweighed the screams.  We were only a few miles from home. I was on the highway during the worst of it, probably doing more than sixty.  The louder she got, the harder I pressed on the gas. 

I prayed that the kitty wouldn’t make his way toward me. As soon as I started visualizing what could happen if he did – the tickling the swerving the crashing the plummeting off the bridge into Lake Quinsigamond  –  he jumped onto the nape of my neck and latched on good.  That was my first inkling that this strange four-legged tormentor was a mind reader.  He dug in his claws like a mountain climber on Everest, then began traversing my body: one shoulder blade then the other, under an armpit, down to my ample belly. He snuggled up a little bit there and I remember thinking maybe he’d quiet down and settle in for a nap.  

But no. I guess my shrieking and laughing and jerking around unsettled him. He made for my thighs and that’s when I remembered the strange hole in the floor of the car, near the gas pedal. It was about the size of a Hershey bar, as was this cat. I had no idea what purpose the hole served. But I was pretty sure it led to the engine. I pictured that innocent mewing baby weaving around my ankles and creeping into that gaping black maw and I knew I had to do something fast. 

I grabbed at the kitty. He swatted at my hand, cutting me for the first time. I grabbed again and again and each time he’d bob and weave like a prize fighter. Finally, I managed to get a grip around his middle, which wasn't much thicker than a cucumber. I tugged and tugged while his tiny talons plunged deeper and deeper into my thigh.  Finally, I broke his hold. He tried to twist himself out of my grasp, but I held tight. I reached back as far as I could and tried to drop him behind me, onto the floor of the back seat. But the jiggling critter wouldn’t let go. He started to work his way up my arm. 

What I did next is not something I am proud of, but I want to be honest. Plus, he survived. I loosened my grip and flung my arm back as hard as I could. He flew into the air and landed on the back seat. I heard the thud quite clearly. 

He was quiet after that and we all made it home more or less in one piece. When we got in the house, I let him attack the living room. While I scavenged in the medicine cabinet for bandages to cover up my tattered thighs, Zach explored under the couch, swiped at dust balls under the piano, swatted at dust motes. I found him curled up on the carpet sound asleep, right in the center of the room on a big square of sunlight.   

He nearly died one more time that day. 

It was late at night. The children were fast asleep. The house was quiet, except for the soft pad pad pad of tiny paws. I was sitting on the kitchen floor watching Zach.  I’d been sitting there for hours, mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, this perfect new soul discovering his universe one sniff at a time.  He nosed at base boards and licked at crumby corners. He attempted to find a secret passage behind the refrigerator but got quite frightened when the motor kicked on. He scurried off, tripped over his own legs, and somersaulted across the floor.    

He found the telephone cord, a snarled mess several yards long that always got in the way. I watched, curious to see what kind of gymnastic feat  the  little goof would attempt next.  He swatted at the cord. The cord swatted back. He lunged at it and pulled on it. Within seconds the little guy had gotten himself severely tangled. He couldn’t move. He went limp. I realized he was strangling. I jumped into action. Even though it took no time at all to free him, it felt like ages. 

He stood there, dazed. I kneeled down on the floor and scooped him up. I cuddled him to my chest. His tiny heart hammered against my own. His body curled into my palm and soon he fell asleep.  I inched my way toward the cabinets, and leaned back carefully. I didn’t want to wake him. I held him the way you hold a sleeping baby, just tight enough. I was surprised that I hadn’t forgotten that hold, and I was glad too.  

Himself

Finish lines are starting lines in disguise

I started this blog, this little writing experiment, twenty-eight days ago in order to test myself. I wanted to see what would happen if I wrote every day and held myself accountable for that writing by publishing every day. 

Here’s what I learned. 

I do a better job when I write first thing in the morning. I get sloppier as the day goes on. I let clichés slide in. I don’t edit myself as well. My words just don’t come as easily.  I goof up. I get awkward. 

The writing took up a lot of time. I figured I’d need maybe an hour, ninety minutes tops, for each blog post.  I think ninety minutes was the least amount of time I spent. Most posts took about three hours, though a few took longer.

The thinking took up a lot of time. Sometimes, I sat down with just a fuzzy idea of what I would write. I’d start typing up the first thoughts that would come. I’d use the act of writing to work out what I wanted to write about.  By the time I got to the third, sixth or eighth paragraph, I’d see a common theme emerge, then I’d delete everything and start over. A few times, I wrote up entire pieces, then deleted them.

The thinking was constant. “What will I write about next?” popped into my head as often as “what should I have for lunch, dinner, dessert?” Often, one blog idea would lead to another. Sometimes, comments from some of you prompted certain blogs. 

I loved doing it. How do I know? Eating is my favorite thing in the world next to reading, running, Springsteen and Showtime. When I was writing, I forgot to eat.  For example, when I wrote in the morning, this is roughly what my routine would be like. I’d wake up around eight. Have some coffee, surf the net, skulk around on facebook, surf the net, have more coffee, and then I’d start to type around nine. I’d write, rewrite, add, delete, review.

Finally I’d notice my bottom was aching. Or maybe my knees would start cramping up. Or my throat was dry. I’d get up to stretch or get a glass  of water, and discover that it was after twelve, and I was still in my pajamas and I hadn’t eaten in a half a day and none of it bothered me.  

I’m not thrilled with everything I wrote, and sometimes I knew that I wasn’t even as I hit the publish button. Sometimes this was because of topic, but usually it was because of a clunkiness in the writing that I didn’t take the time to work out. There’s more. I could go on and on about redundancies, grammar errors, repetition.  But the thing is, I had fun and I learned a lot and I’m so glad I did this.    

So what I need to consider next is how to proceed. The next week is busy. Work starts up again and that will draw off all my time and energy for a little while until I adapt to my new schedule.  How do I keep the writing momentum going? Do I cut back to blogging once a week? Twice a week? I haven’t figured that out yet.

And then there’s the issue of the effect my real-world work has on me. As I’ve gotten closer and closer to the start of the school year, I find it harder to quiet my head and focus. I’m feeling off center and out of balance. I’ve misplaced my thoughtful center. I need to figure out how to find it when it goes missing.

Thanks for all your kind comments. Thanks for reading my writing.  I hope to be back soon. I need to be back soon.